


Fever All Through the Night

by larkscape



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Banter, Established Relationship, F/M, Fever sex, Fluff and Smut, Sickfic, mild size kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-16
Updated: 2019-03-16
Packaged: 2019-11-19 12:36:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18135833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larkscape/pseuds/larkscape
Summary: “Nobody wants space flu.” No one.Hunkdoesn’t want space flu; the least he can do is not spread the misery.Yeah, but Pidge has a better idea.





	Fever All Through the Night

**Author's Note:**

> Why are there two tags for this ship? Why are they not synned? The world may never know.
> 
> A 100 words prompt fill that got out of hand. Title from Peggy Lee. (Though her version of Fever is not actually the original! The things you learn writing fic.)

 

“Pidge, no,” Hunk groans, “you'll catch it, too.” With one hand, he tries to push her away, but the fever’s made him weak and all he manages is a sort of limp petting motion. Pidge doesn't bother to hide her smile.

“You're in no place to argue,” she tells him, settling in under the blankets.

“Nobody wants space flu.” No one. _He_ doesn’t want space flu; the least he can do is not spread the misery.

“So give me your antibodies,” she says, and then kisses him, which is a compelling argument in itself. She let the cold air in when she lifted the blankets, but her mouth is hot and persuasive.

“Is that what we’re calling it? I thought you were just marinating in my germs.” Hunk gives in and lets her scoot closer. Her mouth is a little too persuasive for his muddled state; she’s turning him on, making him dizzy, but he’s finding that dizziness from arousal is much preferable to flu dizziness. He folds his arms around her small form, rucking up her shirt when she tucks her head under his chin. “I'm not a doctor,” he mumbles, “but I really don't think antibodies transfer like that.”

“Shh, don't argue with me. You're delirious. And I'm the one with family in the biological sciences.”

Her knee is nudging insistently between his thighs. She is, huh, not wearing pants. Definitely not wearing pants. Or underwear? Nope, not those either. Her leg feels very nice through the floaty haze of the fever, and he’s sorely tempted to let her continue burrowing her way toward the half-chub in his boxers. Cold hands find his forehead, stroking down his temples, and the pounding in his head abates somewhat.

“Your mom's a botanist,” he tries, though he knows he’s already lost. “And your dad studies ice samples.”

“Extraterrestrial ice samples, thanks, and those both totally count for doctor points. What did I say about not arguing?” She kisses him again. “Now shush, there’s a very nice erection down here and I don’t want to waste it.”

He has to laugh at that, because, “Pidge. Boners are not a limited resource.”

“Are you saying you _don’t_ want to put it in me?”

There is basically never a time he doesn’t want to put it in her, but he also doesn’t want to get her sick. He’s a petri dish full of nastiness at the moment, and his sex skills are heavily impaired; he’s not sure he can manage more than a feeble wriggle. His whole body feels like it’s made out of noodles, except for the parts that feel like they’re made out of sandpaper.

A pathetic noise rises in his throat.

Pidge takes pity on him. “I’ll take care of everything, okay? You need to sleep, and orgasms are usually a one-hit K.O. for you. It’s not totally altruistic, either; I’ve got a hypothesis to test. I want to see if a fever makes your come hotter.”

Hunk groans. “I’m dying. You want to do sex science and I’m too sick to bone you. This is the end, Pidge. I’m done for.”

She laughs, and it makes Hunk want to kiss her again, germs or no germs. Then her expression turns devious as she slips her fingers into his boxers, and he wants to kiss her even more.

“You’re not dying, Hunk, we’re curing you,” she says. “Haven’t you heard the saying? Feed a cold, _fuck_ a fever.”

 

Well, a day proves them both right. On the plus side, Hunk is finally leaving behind the floaty fever daze and starting to feel like he’s back in the right dimension. (Starting to. He's not nearly one hundred percent yet, but it’s a marked improvement.)

Pidge, on the other hand, has proved the lie in the old adage: misery shared is not misery halved, it’s misery doubled. She’s fucked the fever out of him and into herself.

“Why did you do this to me, Hunk?” she moans piteously, rolling around in the tangled blankets. She had, when it became clear she was coming down with space flu, too, decided that the both of them were quarantined, and claimed half his bed as spoils of conquest. Or something. Pidge-logic is occasionally incomprehensible even when he isn’t operating under flu delirium. “Betrayal. The height of betrayal.”

“Blame space germs,” Hunk groans. His whole body feels heavy and gross.

Next to him, Pidge shivers and shrinks into a petulant ball of blankets. She shoves her forehead into his arm; it’s startlingly hot. “Space is full of betrayal. I hate space. Ugh.”

“Now that's a lie. Aw, Pidge, you’re burning up. I think you might have it even worse than I did.”

“It’s cold. I know, I know— I have a fever and everything feels cold when you have a fever, but Hunk. I’m _cold.”_

“Come here,” Hunk murmurs, opening his arms. She rolls into him and huddles against his side, keeping a death grip on the blankets tucked up around her neck so none of their shared body heat escapes. This is the whole reason why he tried to protest yesterday; he hates seeing her miserable. Though, given typical flu incubation periods, she’d already caught it before she knocked him out via orgasm, so he supposes the protesting was pointless, anyway.

“We've gotta fuck the fever away,” Pidge says, muffled. “It worked for you, it'll work for me.”

He laughs. “Sure you're up for that? ‘Cause I'm not sure if I am.” His joints don’t feel like they’re screwed on quite right.

“No one said it had to be energetic fucking. Just… get over here.” She unfolds against him, wrestling off her underwear and lifting one knee over his hip. “God, my head hurts way too much for me to be this horny. Want you. Want the flu to go away.”

“Pidge…” He pets her back, smoothing down her tank top under the blankets and feeling her ribs move under his hand as she breathes. Her hair tickles his cheek. “You’re adorable,” he tells her, and chuckles when she bristles. “Your hair’s sticking up like crazy; you look like a dandelion. A tiny, grumpy dandelion. Grumpylion? I feel like that was a character on one of those little kids’ shows or something. Have you ever acted in toddler TV?”

“Once I can stand upright again, I’m kicking your ass.”

“Okay,” Hunk says amiably. “Is the sex happening before or after the asskicking?” The hypothetical sex; his mind’s into it, but the flesh — both their flesh — is weak and uncooperative and riddled with flu. His head is still aching. Pidge’s skin feels like it’s at least a million degrees on whatever temperature scale they’re using out here.

“Before,” Pidge says. “Obviously. The asskicking can’t commence until I can stand; the sex is supposed to get me there. You’re contributing to your own demise.” She sniffles loudly. “It’s poetic.”

Hunk laughs. “I approve.” The worst of it is that he _does;_ Pidge bitching is Pidge distracted from her misery, and also her bitching falls somewhere between endearing and hot in Hunk’s obviously-miswired brain. He shifts her further on top of him, careful to maintain the blanket cocoon. With an uncoordinated wiggle, she fits her knees around his waist and lines up their hips, then rocks a little on his boxer-covered dick; he returns the gesture, harder, as she moves with him and molds herself to his body.

“Still can't believe you gave me your flu,” she mutters, her lips hot on his neck. “You were supposed to immunize me, not infect me.”

“I told you antibodies don't transfer like that. You've got no one to blame but yourself. And you know why?” He leans in to whisper directly in her ear, grinning. This one never fails to get a rise out of her. “Because you _double-modulate._ The coding gods are angry at your flagrant waste of processing power.”

“All right, that's it,” Pidge huffs. “Sex is cancelled. Get out of this bed.”

“It’s _my bed,”_ Hunk laughs, hugging her tighter. “And now you’re the one contributing to your own demise. I thought we were supposed to be curing you.”

“Not worth it, not if you're going to insist on single modulating. Don't you know that once isn't enough to satisfy?”

He snorts, which makes his headache worse, but Pidge laughs at him and relaxes into his chest. She's warm, and soft, and Hunk has a pavlovian reaction to the spread of her legs; things are getting pretty perky down there, no matter how exhausted he is. The way she moves against him says she's in the same boat.

“Not enough for you, maybe, but I bet you'll fall asleep before the second one this time, anyway,” he tells her fondly.

“Pssh, wrong.” As she moves, the blankets pull up at the edge; she shudders, clinging to him and shrinking away from the sudden draft. “Quiznack, it's so cold. I don't like fevers. The human body should have come up with a better system by now.”

“Let down by nature once again?”

“You know me so well. See, this is one more reason robots are superior to fleshy beings. Robots don’t get sick.” She nuzzles his neck. “Come on, get to curing me, big guy. Plus-ten cock of healing.”

“Hmm, that sounds like a pretty rare item.” He traps her hips with one arm. She's so cute when she's hazy like this. He can't resist teasing a little more. “No, you know what? You don't like the way I modulate.”

“But _Hunk—”_

“Nope. Your exact words were ‘sex is cancelled.’”

“Sex is _un_ cancelled. Resume the dicking.” She gives a hearty wriggle, fierce even in her weakened state, but Hunk holds firm, hiding a smile on her hair. Then she goes limp, and her voice takes on a more genuine tone. “I'm freezing and my head’s so fuzzy it feels like I'm three steps sideways from reality right now; help me out.”

He breaks without even bothering to fight it. Pressing a kiss to her temple, he bundles her closer with one arm and reaches down with the other— only to realize he's stuck.

“The plus-ten Cock of Healing,” he says seriously, “is blocked by the Boxers of Modesty, which are currently trapped under the Thighs of Extreme Sexiness. Roll for dexterity.”

There's this ridiculous noise coming from her, somewhere between a giggle and a snort, and it makes her voice wobble adorably as she says, “Would you look at that: a natural twenty. It's like we know what we're doing or something.” She worms up his body until her legs are high around his waist and no longer trapping the band of his boxers, except now her legs are in the way of his arm's reach, and he still can't get the damn things off.

“Minus eight illness penalty,” he intones, then makes a little exasperated noise. “Pidge, we suck at this.”

“Don't blame it on me, Patient Zero. Bend your wrist more— oh, okay, you really can't get it from there, can you? Give me a tic.” She reaches down, trying to claw away the offending waistband, but the movement pulls the blankets open again and there's another cool draft of air. Pidge flinches away from it with a growl. “Damn it! Wow, we really do suck at this. Hunk. We're two geniuses. How do we suck so bad at sex?”

“Hey, give us _some_ credit. We're operating at reduced capacity here. Space flu is kind to no one.”

Pidge has to roll completely off him, taking most of the blankets with her, before Hunk can get naked, but eventually he manages it. She's shed her tank top in the meantime. When she eels back on top with a relieved sigh, her overheated skin and bare breasts rub pleasantly across his torso. She faceplants in the pillow with her chin tucked over his shoulder, both arms draped around his chest, and her knees folded at his sides; it's less an embrace than a feeble sprawl cut up by occasional shivers that make her grip tighten.

“That was exhausting,” she groans. “Muscle strength is at approximately two percent right now. This is going to be the laziest sex of our lives.”

“That sounds… really nice, actually.” There was way too much moving involved in all that shuffling. His head pounds. His arms ache like he’s been hauling supply crates around again. “Can we just lay here for awhile?”

“Yeah, okay.”

Slowly, using the least amount of energy that still lets him touch, Hunk runs his hands over her body, up her thighs to her hips and further, tracing the dip of her spine, following the wings of her shoulder blades with his fingertips. She's so _small._ Wiry muscle lines her frame, she's tricky and nimble and a beast in a fight, but he can just about span her entire waist with his hands. Hunk isn't sure he should find it so hot that he can lift her like she weighs nothing at all.

No lifting right now, though. He's sick, and she's even more sick, and they're both weak and miserable. Right now, he’s simply enjoying the way she fits so neatly on his chest.

She turns her head so she can press pillow-muffled kisses to the side of his face and neck, then tucks the top edges of the blankets under his shoulders so they’ll stay put. The heat is almost stifling.

Pidge still shivers a little. “Warm me up?” she murmurs, turning her amber eyes up to him.

“If anything, I think you need cooling down,” Hunk muses, but kisses her for a long moment — when both parties have terrible stayed-in-bed-all-day breath, it equals out; she tastes like stale spit, but so does he, and her mouth is warm and pliant — then slides his hands all the way down her back until he can wrap them around her hips. She breaks the kiss and follows his encouraging nudge, scooting down a bit, until they’re both enjoying the gentle motion she’s started up. He had started to soften, but it doesn’t take much before he’s fully hard again. See, there’s this gorgeous girl on top of him making little sounds of pleasure, and she’s smart, and sweet, and sarcastic, and kind of mercenary sometimes, and he loves her an awful lot. Not to mention that she’s naked and rubbing her sweet, slick cunt all over his cock.

Cure for space flu or not, he really wants to be inside her.

“Pidge?”

“Mm,” she grunts, rolling her forehead on his collarbone.

He grips her hip lightly. “Lift up a little?”

“Mm,” she says again, but this time there's an appreciative lilt to her voice. “Yeah, let's.” She tilts her hips, rising up on her knees and, god, dragging her wet folds _all_ the way up his cock, jeez, Pidge is hot there on a normal day but the fever has made her body even hotter and Hunk is actually going to combust pretty soon here. When she gets a hand around his cock to position it at her entrance, he groans, trying not to buck his way inside before she's ready.

The way the blankets are pinned is making them creep up the back of her head as she moves, pushing her hair into even wilder disarray. She'll disappear entirely into the cocoon in a moment.

Pidge rubs the tip of his cock along her cunt from clit to hole and back a couple times, coating him with her wetness, before adjusting the angle so he starts to slip inside. Oh, fuck, she’s tight. He’s barely in, but she’s already clenching around the crown and making these intoxicating little moans as she works herself down inch by inch, stretching herself open around him. Hunk holds as still as he can, letting her take her time; his fingers clutch at her hips.

“How do I keep forgetting just how _big_ you are?” Pidge asks on a harsh exhale. “Jeez, Hunk, you overachiever.”

Hunk grins at the ceiling. “You like it.”

“Guilty as charged. Oh, right there, that’s— that’s good.”

“There?” He rocks slowly, deliberately, so that the head of his cock drags over the same spot again.

“Ffffuck yeah, _mmm._ Hunk.” She mashes her entire face against his chest. Yup, there she goes, disappearing; all he can see of her now are the golden tufts of her hair that stick out from the blankets. He can feel her, though — _oh,_ can he feel her. She’s fever-hot, deliciously slick where she's stretched tight around him, her panting breaths warm on his sternum, her thighs trembling under his hands as she sinks lower, lower, until she’s flat to his body and he’s buried all the way inside.

Oh, she feels so good. Every fiber of his being strains to be closer, as if that were even possible. He runs his hands up her back; his arms are heavy as lead, but he wants to touch her, hold her, wants to melt the two of them together.

Pidge shivers again, and then goes abruptly lax. “That's… about the limit of my energy for the moment.”

“Uh huh,” Hunk groans. Their shared lassitude is taking over; he's succumbing to a sympathetic wave of weakness. Gravity and friction are the only things holding his arms around her now. She breathes damply on his clavicle as they both sink into the mattress for a while.

This is nice. This is very nice. Pidge is melting on top of him like a pat of butter on a pancake (okay, if his appetite is coming back then he’s definitely on the mend); the heat is intense under all these blankets, so yeah, that metaphor holds up. Butter Pidge. Yum. He’s all snug up inside her body, her sopping curls getting him just as wet as she is, and they’re so still and relaxed that he can feel the faint pulse of her heartbeat through his cock.

“Mmm,” he murmurs eventually, mostly to test that his vocal cords still work.

“Yeah,” Pidge says, muffled in his chest. “Same.”

“Hey, Pidge.” He tucks his chin to kiss her hair where it still sticks out of the blankets, finds the top of her head, and kisses that, too. “I like your face.”

“I like _your_ face,” she replies. “And your brain, I like your brain, too.”

“God, yeah, can't forget the brain. You've got a great brain.” He secures his arms tighter around her waist; in turn, her walls squeeze, and he rolls his hips up, and okay, guess he does have a little bit of energy left after all, because it's easy to start up a rhythm. Nothing crazy, just a little motion, just enough to get some very nice friction going, just enough to feel his cock sliding inside her cunt again and again and—

 _“Fuck,_ that's nice,” she moans.

“Brain,” he tries to continue. “Great brain. Very… brainy. Hnn.”

Pidge makes a scoffing noise at his eloquence and clenches again.

 _“God,”_ Hunk moans. “Shush, you know I can't think when you're doing that.”

“Can we figure out how to have brain sex?” she asks, twisting her head out from under the blankets and resting her chin on his sternum as she rocks lazily on his cock. “We've got those neural connection helmets; it seems like a wasted opportunity.”

How can she talk right now? Hunk lets her take over their motion; it seems she’s got it covered, and if she’s going to try to engage him in conversation, then she can take on the burden of multitasking. He can only focus on one thing at a time right now and the fucking is making a spirited effort to be that one thing, but Pidge is looking at him like she wants a real answer.

He considers her proposition for a long moment while she circles her hips. Jeez, that’s distracting. And amazing. She’s so wet, so tight, so _warm—_

“If we defile ancient, irreplaceable Altean tech like that,” he decides, “I'll never be able to look Coran in the eye ever again.”

“…Shit, you're right. Okay, new plan: we reverse-engineer the neural connection helmets and build our own brain sex machine. Specifically for brain sex.”

Hunk laughs, which makes his hips jump, which makes Pidge moan and squeeze, and then Hunk is losing his mind a little bit again, but he still manages to say, “You really like saying ‘brain sex.’”

“And?” She stills, pinning him with an expectant look; fucking is apparently on pause until she gets her answer.

“Ambitious plan,” Hunk says. “But I'm game if you are. Ah! As long as we test it on someone else, first. I don't want to liquefy my brain.”

“Liquefied brain sex: bad idea. Noted.”

“Did that… not occur to you before? Pidge?” Her devious smile does not bode well, especially when she starts moving again. “You, uh. You worry me sometimes. You— jeez, stop trying to… distract me… no, I take that back, keep distracting me. Distract me harder.”

“I promise I won't liquefy your brain, Hunk; I like it in the state it's in.” She grins, then grinds down with a deft twist of hip. “I might fuck it right out of your head, though.”

“I… probably have objections to that last part, but… but hell if I can… remember them right now, oh god, ah, Pidge—”

She makes a pleased noise and leans up for a kiss; he meets her halfway and it rapidly turns filthy.

“Where did all this energy come from?” he asks when she lets him up for air. “Thought you were exhausted.”

“...I really like your dick,” she says, and oh, wow, she’s actually blushing a little. How is she so cute? Then she does something wicked with her internal muscles that makes his whole lower body throb with need, and he has to mentally amend: cute and _blisteringly hot._ Fuck. He really hit the jackpot here, even if she double-modulates like a crazy person and wants to have brain sex with him.

Actually, that last thing is pretty awesome.

“We’re gonna have brain sex,” he says. The smile on his face must look pretty stupid. It _feels_ like it looks pretty stupid. He keeps on smiling it anyway as he moves inside her. “Pidge. Please never use your powers for evil. Wait, scratch that; please use your powers for sexy evil.”

She grins. “That’s the plan.”

Then she presses down again, with more purpose, and Hunk gives up on further speech in favor of planting his heels and driving his cock into her. With a pleased huff of breath, she koalas onto him, stuffing her hands under his shoulders so she can both cling to them and keep the blankets solidly in place as she rides him. Every circle of her hips sinks him deep in a slick glide, makes them both moan as he bottoms out and she grinds her clit on his pubic bone.

Shortly, though, Pidge’s face starts to twist with discomfort; her motion slows, then stops entirely, and she makes a pitiful noise.

Hunk runs his hands over her too-hot skin. “You okay?”

“Ugh,” she groans, shivering, “I hate being sick; I _hurt_ but I _want you._ This is balls.”

“You’ve got your anatomy mixed up there, Pidge. _This_ is not balls; they're lower down.” He thrusts once, lightly, to illustrate his point, and she tries to hide her smile in a sour expression. Luckily, kissing her pout makes it uncurl. “Come on,” he says, “relax and let me take care of you.”

“Mmm. Okay.” She lays her ear to his chest. The blankets creep up again, obscuring half her cheek. “Gentle, though. My head is pounding.”

“I know.” He strokes the curve of her shoulder and neck with one hand, curls his other arm around her waist, then rocks up nice and slow and easy, sliding deeper as smoothly as he can. “That good?”

“Yeah,” she says, sounding exhausted. “Love you. Don’t stop.”

“Love you, too. Don’t worry, I’ll fix you right up. You just need some cream filling.”

Pidge snort-laughs again. “Never say that again. Ever.”

“But you laughed!”

“Because it was awful! Jeez, you’re worse than Lance sometimes. You— _oh._ Yeah. Like… like that.”

Hunk traps her low back under his forearm and lets the deadweight hold her there; actually using the muscle is going to be too much for him for any length of time, but his arm is heavy, and she’s small and accommodating. She slumps on his chest, her arms limp at his sides, and lets herself be held. Thank all the stars in the sky that she wants it slow — he doesn’t think he’s up for anything more strenuous.

He starts a lazy rhythm, pumping up slowly. Even as fever-limp as she is, her walls still convulse around his cock as he pushes in, and okay, yeah, that’s inspiring. One sharp thrust jostles her, but she moans approvingly, so he does it again.

“More?” he asks, pressing his mouth to her hair.

“Ah, mmm.”

She curves, arches her low back, then flattens again in a new angle. Hunk massages her hip with one hand, then uses his grip to tug her down onto his next thrust, and now he can get even deeper, god, she’s so _hot_ inside. Her cunt clenches when he bottoms out, and he stays as far in as he can get, grinding there so her clit rubs on him, so he can feel every squeeze of muscle around the head of his cock. She moans, throaty and low.

Fuck, he can’t take this. He pulls out just enough to drive back in, again, harder, his other arm circling her shoulders to keep her upper body still so hopefully he won’t make her headache worse, and then he rolls his hips to find the angle that makes her gasp and thrusts deep.

Her open mouth presses against his chest, laying sloppy kisses on his skin, and she keeps making these breathless noises every time he hits the right spot, and every sound drives him on. He clutches her close and fucks into her until she’s moaning continuously, writhing on top of him, her hands grasping at his sides, her legs vice-tight around his hips, every twitch of muscle evidence of her pleasure.

With a cry, she clenches all over, dragging him in with every limb as orgasm bears down on her. Her walls contract around his cock in staggering waves as he fucks her through it, extending her peak as much as he can.

Hunk's so focused on making her feel good that his own orgasm takes him by surprise, dragged out of him as Pidge’s winds down. He strangles a groan in his throat and shoves in to the root, straining to get further, coming deep inside with his arms locked around her.

After a long moment of blinding pleasure, Hunk slumps into the mattress. Pidge is sprawled bonelessly across his chest, making occasional little hums of satisfaction.

Slowly, Pidge slides off his cock, and it’s a testament to his exhaustion that he doesn’t even care that she’s leaking spunk all over them both. Cleanup can wait until his arms feel less like rubber. She worms up a little and drops her face into his neck, and then they just lay there, catching their breath.

Hunk feels like he went six rounds with one of the training bots. That might have been a bit too much exertion for his delicate state.

Worth it.

“You’re way too good at that,” Pidge murmurs.

“Vrepit sa,” he whispers in her ear, just to hear her laugh. “The killing thrust.”

“Oh my _god,_ Hunk.” But she’s just as bad as he is; she lifts up to watch him as she says, mock-serious, “And hast thou slain the Jabber-flu?”

“Well, if that wasn't snicker-snacking with a vorpal sword, I don't know what is.”

She breaks into guffaws. “Now I have to call your dick a vorpal sword, no, what have you done?”

“Hey, Pidge. _Pidge.”_ He waggles his eyebrows in the most over-the-top manner he can, struggling to maintain a straight face. “Do you want to snicker-snack?”

“I'll take your vorpal sword in— in _hand—”_ she wheezes. “No, I can't, Hunk, I _can't,_ you— in _hand,_ jeez, do you think he meant it like that? Jabberwocky is ruined forever, oh quiznack— no, don’t make me laugh, it hurts.”

Despite her protests, it takes a while for their laughter to die down.

Eventually they quiet, Hunk with both arms clasped loosely around Pidge’s waist, Pidge with her head tucked up under his chin and the blankets pulled messily around her shoulders. Hunk idly pets the three inches of skin he can reach without moving his hand, fingers drifting back and forth, back and forth, until his fingertips start to go tingly with the friction.

Pidge sighs contentedly. “I know it's just endorphins and stuff, but… mmm. Cock of Healing: ten out of ten, would ride again. 'M all… floaty. Gotta love that post-orgasm high.”

“Go to sleep, Pidge, you're drunk,” Hunk says with a smile.

“‘Kay,” she replies, nuzzling his throat and settling in. “G’night, Hunk. No, ngh, move the blankets, it's too hot.”

“Sure, sure— wait, _hot?_ Did it actually work? Did we break your fever just by having sex?”

Pidge flops her hand on his chest in a move far too weak and sleepy to be a swat, and Hunk's heart flops just as pathetically in his chest when she speaks.

 _“Told_ you,” she mumbles. “Feed a cold, fuck a fever. Science.”

 


End file.
